


No Reservations: New York City

by Peapods



Category: Pundit RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever Tony is back in town Anderson makes it a point to take him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Reservations: New York City

Whenever Tony is in New York they find time to eat, drink, watch trashy TV and fuck 'til they can't move. Tony isn't really his type. He's scrawny in the wrong places. He wears awful clothing and doesn't have a filter between his mouth and brain. He doesn't know the meaning of the word "diplomacy." But his dick is marvelously large and he knows what to do with it.

This particular outing has started at one of New York's jewels. When he's not overseas all Tony wants is a "_fucking cheeseburger, french fries, and a really shitty American beer_." Anderson takes however many nights out of his schedule and indulges Tony's needs. They eat greasy burgers and drink beers that are bigger than their heads. They share a basket of fries that could feed ten people and Tony insists on onion straws and Anderson is tipsy before Tony even has a buzz, but that is how the chef prefers it. Tony never seems all that drunk to Anderson, though he insists he is. His walk is always lanky and loose, his smile is always ready, his enunciation nonexistent.

When they walk out into the hot New York summer night, Tony's hand is unrepentantly attached to Anderson's ass. Anderson allows it because no one is looking at _him_, head covered a cap, they're looking at Tony. Tony with his unapologetic jeans shorts, his unapologetic hand, and his unapologetic loud voice as he curses this bar and the next. He leads with his groin, as though permanently reclined. They end up at some place with a patio and bottle service. Tony orders a bottle of eighty dollar tequila and two glasses. An entire cutting board of limes appears as well and Anderson figures he's likely to be fucked standing up tonight.

Shots flow freely and Anderson can see flashes of cameras going on, but can't be bothered to care.

They met in 2006, Anderson arriving, Tony leaving, and a meeting of eyes. A few exchanged words.

_"About fucking time," Tony says, disgruntled._

_"Tell me about it," Anderson replies, equally disgruntled._

Back in New York Anderson saw his special and called him up. They drank and talked and then Tony took him home and fucked him with the balcony doors open and blue twilight lighting up Anderson's room.

Tonight, it's hotter, stickier, and they're more drunk than they've been before. Anderson's head is lolling backward and sweat is beading on his upper lip and along his hairline. Tony is staring at him with hooded eyes, bottom lip naturally jutting and slick with liquor and spit. They lean in close when they talk and soon enough the place is getting too crowded for their taste. The cameras have long since lost interest as they drank themselves stupid. They're walking around now, Tony wants to find another bar and Anderson wants to find a dark corner.

He pulls Tony into a dark doorway. Butts up against a brick wall and thrusts his groin against Tony's. Tony smiles, pulls off his sunglasses--he wore them at night--and kisses him. He's not a fast mover. He told Anderson once that he enjoyed sex like he enjoyed food. Slowly, appreciating the taste, enjoying the filling up in his stomach. Their tongues are lazy, rough against each other and Anderson only tastes lime on his lips, tequila on his tongue, and a little salt on his soft palette. They breathe hard through their noses and hands clench and unclench in each others flesh, like his friend Marie's cat kneading a lap. Anderson has to pull away, dizzy and joyful, head falling back to hit the brick.

"We need to drink more," Tony intones.

Anderson laughs, nearly falling over, but Tony is sober enough to support him. "How much more?"

"It's only midnight," Tony answers. "Come on."

They're disappearing into a part of the city where, if you don't know it's there, restaurants and bars can just disappear. They go in, up a flight of steps, out onto a deck, down the steps onto another patio. Anderson doesn't begrudge him. He knows Tony often dines al fresco.

There was no bottle service, but they had some pretty amazing beer on tap, even if, normally, Anderson didn't particularly care for it. They got a pitcher and Tony hustled a couple frat boys away from a table, taking over with asshole-like confidence. They have, amazingly, not exhausted conversation, they chat easily, avoiding war and politics. They talk about food and culture and jobs and drugs. Tony's hand sneaks onto his thigh with nothing resembling subtlety. He's gratified by the knowledge that Tony wants to spend time with him, knows that sex will be the end note of the night, but that the rest of it is not discounted by that fact. They drink and eat and talk because they want to. The sex is a welcome addition.

Back at Anderson's place, the air conditioning is unwelcome. They go into the bedroom, shut the grate, open up the balcony doors. Tony isn't shy and he isn't one to beat around the bush. His tongue is in Anderson's mouth, his hands easily pulling off Anderson's clothing.

They're naked and writhing. The alcohol makes Anderson's head spin, the heat and sweat and arousal making him leaden and pliable. Anderson is red with sunburn and dotted with freckles. He tries to keep his legs up around Tony's hips, but they're so heavy he can't. Tony chuckles darkly and presses them into his chest, takes control.

"Condoms?"

"Where do you think?" Anderson thinks he asks. Tony is laughing again and reaching over to the side of the bed. Between one coherent thought and the next he's prepared and Tony is pressing against him, smiling down. "Come on, waiting for a formal invitation?" It's not an original line by any stretch, but it gets the point across as Tony presses inside and Anderson is so relaxed, so ready that he just pulls him in.

"Yeah, fuck," Tony says. The way he moves is like he doesn't want to exert too much energy or he could be too drunk, Anderson supposed. He's savoring it, thrusting to a rhythm only he can hear--if that rhythm belonged to an epileptic puppet--and Anderson is going insane trying to keep up with the slow-slow-fast-slow beat. His short nails dig into Tony's back and his eyes can't stop rolling back. His mouth is dry, dropped open, gasping for air. He can feel each inhale of breath expanding and contracting the cracks in his lips.

He's so fucking aroused, but he can barely do anything to contribute. Can only let Tony know that what he is doing is renting Anderson in a thousand directions, through moans and hisses and the bite of his fingernails. He gathers what strength, what sobriety, he can and arches up, taking Tony further, entreating him to go faster, harder. Ignoring the sweat, ignoring the fact that he might be getting lightheaded from the heat and the alcohol and the exertion.

Tony's head is thrown back and his thrusts go a little random and then he's coming. Anderson whines, because he's not there. He's had too much to drink, he's too lost in other feelings to focus. Tony only takes a few moments, needing to regain equilibrium, before he reaches down to jack Anderson. He's got big hands, used to handling food and spoons and knives so there is a precision to his touch that so many lack and Anderson comes a few moments later, going uselessly boneless.

"I'm drunk," he tells Tony as they lay elbow-to-elbow. "The room may or may not be spinning."

"I'd attr-attrib-shit--I'd say that was my doing, but I know better. Put your foot on the ground."

Anderson scoots and does so and the room mercifully begins to slow down.

"Where you headed next?" Anderson asks.

"Ecuador? Uh, that's the only one I can remember right now."

"Tequila," Anderson says definitively, not at all concerned with the logic that tells him tequila comes from Mexico. "You can stay, if you want," Anderson tells him.

"I know a place a few blocks from here that serves the best fucking Bloody Mary's on the planet. They use pickles _and_ peppers."

Anderson wants to groan, but knows better. He should just call in to work now. And possibly his mother so she doesn't send out rescue crews.

He is going to be drunk until next week.


End file.
